It looked like a mini-museum.
With its ancient artifacts lining the walls and half-opened boxes littering the corners.
Two figures stood out in a room awash with stacks of ancient texts, their bodies edged along the rectangular center of the room. Waves of paper clutter and stacked books dressed the table, with a bowl of grapes as its centerpiece.
Concentrating on the paper coveted by his hands, Jonas hunched over the bench, a pencil snug tightly behind his ear and a green grape rolling around his tongue.
"According to this," Jonas declared distractedly, "the text from the ruins indicates an early form of dialect dating from ... "
"Okay!"
The braying word introducing his arrival like the bang of a gong, a bouncing O'Neill sprung across the threshold, his eyes maintaining strict contact with the loose paper within his grasp; his posture mirrored that of Jonas' before the interruption ... except that Jonas lacked O'Neill's swagger, and *his* paper didn't appear as if run through the washer.
O'Neill pressed on, not once checking whether anyone actually occupied the room. "Jonas ... looks like you're on stuffing duty." His simple mission accomplished - dart in, bark the order, dart out - Jack's feet retreated to the door, and achieved midpoint of their trajectory when detained by an unwelcome distress signal.
"Colonel?"
His body recoiled at the sound - did Jonas have to make *everything* complicated - but it twisted around to meet him nonetheless. "Stuffing," Jack reiterated, "for Thanksgiving."
Confusion.
He loved that look ... on Carter.
The one that invoked the embarrassed dimple between her brows, and detonated a ball of challenging fire in her eyes.
But, Jonas was not - by *any* stretch of the imagination - Carter.
And, therefore, he thought the look exceedingly irritating.
Jonas pitched a quizzical glance toward Teal'c, eager for an explanation from *anyone*, but he received only a raised eyebrow in return.
Teal'c knew the answer - he *had* been on Earth for seven years - but withheld the information ... what would be the fun in just *giving* him the answer? Watching this was *far* more entertaining.
"Thanksgiving?" A stymied O'Neill bumbled, his impatience mounting with each syllable. "You know, a get together with family and friends who eat until their stomachs explode and then veg out on the sofa while their brains are overloaded with loads of football. Thanksgiving." To O'Neill, this was the perfect explanation, one even Jonas could comprehend.
"Oh, right." Like the dawning sun bursting into the sky, a flash of understanding crept across Jonas' features. "I think I remember reading something about it in Dr. Jackson's journals. A celebration of the communal meal exchanged between the indigenous peoples of America and the European immigrants that arrived there. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I also recall from his books that these same immigrants later abused ... "
"Jonas!" His impatience erupted, the piercing screech shushing the rambling alien instantly. "Just bring the stuffing!" He so *knew* this was a bad idea, and cursed himself for not sticking with his original plan ... email.
"Colonel?" Again, his body flinched. "What about Teal'c?"
"Uh, well, Teal'c," he stammered, clumsily looking at the man in question for a suitable response, and noticing for the first time the man's smug grin. "Well, he's, uh ... "
In the end, Teal'c considerately bailed him out. "I am no longer given any responsibilities for these gatherings."
His answer prompted Jonas to look questioningly at O'Neill, his accusatory expression demanding an explanation.
"We gave him yams one year," Jack replied as his hand patted his stomach. "Don't ask." The memory seeded a look of utter disgust on O'Neill's face ... Jonas swore he actually looked green.
Recognizing the interlude as his chance to escape, O'Neill's feet veered for the exit when, again, they were interrupted.
"What's a yam?"
O'Neill rolled his eyes; his feet moved undeterred toward the exit, and his hands clutched the paper tighter as his eyes appraised the next item of the list.
"Stuffing?" Jonas questioned; the sluggish word hung in the air, incapable of catching up to Jack's pace as he bounded for the exit.
"Stuffing!" The air replied from beyond the door.
"Stuffing." Jonas said to no one in particular. "Stuffing ... what?"
******
"Jonas." Buried in open books, he started at the abrupt word, causing some of the texts to topple from beneath his chin. The sight only amused Sam more. "Teal'c said you were looking for me."
Jonas listened from underneath the table, his bent form futilely attempting to pick up the astray volumes and to re-establish his previous skyscraper of books. "Yes." He ultimately arose from his crouched position, electing to leave the mess for later, as he motioned with his arm toward the unoccupied chair across the desk. "Please." Only after Carter seated herself firmly - if not comfortably - in the chair did he continue. "Colonel O'Neill was here earlier and he ... "
"What did he give you," she interrupted promptly.
"'Stuffing duty.'" His eyes enlarged with anticipation; he'd been eagerly awaiting her arrival for hours, assured that Sam would provide the answer he'd spent the better half of the day knee-deep in research trying to learn.
"Ah." Carter thanked whatever god existed that it wasn't yams; she didn't think her stomach could survive *that* experience again.
Despite his palpable disappointment, Jonas still watched her intently, surmising from the slender grin that she was ... pleased. The look only fueled his interest more. "Just out of curiosity, Major, what did he give you?"
Sobering her expression, Sam replied casually, "Oh, the usual ... drinks."
Drinks?
That was it?
Teal'c had been completely spared.
He'd been charged with stuffing - whatever the heck *that* was.
And Carter - *the* Sam Carter - was bringing ... drinks?
"Drinks? Isn't that a little ... easy? I would think being from this world, and more accustomed to its culture and traditions, the Colonel would give you something more ... complex."
The epitome of professionalism, Carter censored her budding grin, and responded simply, "Wormhole theory, motorcycle riding ..."
"... and lock picking," he finished for her, decisively conceding that line of questioning for something more on topic. "Right. It's just the Colonel informed me that I have 'stuffing duty,' but I'm not exactly sure what 'stuffing' is. The only mention I can find in all these books defines it as 'dressing.' Dressing for what?"
Again, her professionalism prevailed as Sam sat quietly in her chair, listening attentively as Jonas rambled on.
O'Neill was *very* aware that Jonas would have no clue about any of this. But that wasn't the point. He'd referred to it as an initiation, and she'd been sworn to secrecy.
She knew that ... and she *really* had no intention of breaking that vow. But, she also knew this provided the opportunity to do something she'd been itching to do for months now.
And she couldn't resist ... no matter how mad the Colonel would be.
So she arose from her chair, the action halting Jonas mid-sentence, and strutted purposefully toward the television. Securing the remote in her grasp, her nimble finger rapped three buttons before she fixed him with a satisfied smile and then wordlessly walked out the door.
Maybe O'Neill would never know.
******
The sleepy sun began its colorful descent, crawling slowly to the horizon, as they watched the parade of orange and purple hues that masqueraded in its wake. Tucked in for the day, the sun yielded to the monochrome navy that wrapped the sky. Not even the neighboring city lights could offend the sparkle from the diamonds aligned asymmetrically in the night sky.
The slanted patio chairs garnishing his back porch allowed a seamless shot of the overhead splendor. They milked the view in silence, both totally contented in the other's company; the comfort, both physical and familiar, showered them in an invigorating steam that encircled the pair like sweet perfume emitted from fragrant candles.
Relishing in the rare luxury, words proved meaningless and unnecessary; only an occasional slurp from a bottle disrupted the star's silent show. Not completely alone - Teal'c planted himself in front of the television, while Jonas impersonated a slug on the sofa - but enough to just be.
Both knew it would end eventually - it always did.
But it was enough.
"You know," O'Neill ventured into the still air, "don't think it went unnoticed that I was skipped at dinner ... *again*!"
Finally. All night she'd waited, as sure in the knowledge that he'd say *something* about that as the guarantee of accruing multiple pin marks in the infirmary after a mission.
He should be used to it by now; it *was* a tradition, after all ... just like the turkey, and the football, and their stolen moments under the stars.
And yet, she didn't mind, not at all, because it was so ... him.
"It's not intentional," she argued lamely.
"Yeah," he scoffed, his lips resting lazily at the top of the bottleneck, "like I'm going to believe *that*!"
"You're supposed to give thanks for things you're grateful for," she patiently explained, "that's the whole point. And, well," and there she stumbled ... that, at least, defined giving thanks to most. But, to O'Neill, giving thanks provided a forum for grumbling.
Well, at least that was the case one year; and, even then, he'd been well-pumped with beer beforehand. But, they'd never chanced giving him the podium after that. So, instead of telling her commanding officer that giving thanks did not equate to griping, a most likely inappropriate thing to say, she ... improvised. "You have to admit you can be a little - undiplomatic - sometimes."
He got the gist despite her multi-syllabic vocabulary. "Hey, I can be nice!"
Confronted with a challenging - and very unimpressed - stare, O'Neill countered with his own, one that said 'try me.'
So she did. "Okay. What did you think of Jonas' stuffing?"
"Not ... bad." With his earnest attempt at diplomacy, even the truth sounded insincere, and his stutter garnered an unconvinced look from Carter. "No, honestly. I mean it; I was . impressed. The amazing alien! I swear the guy can pull a rabbit from his helmet. How do you suppose he ..." His eyes caught Carter; despite her creamy complexion that glimmered intensely under the moonlight, their radar detected a miniscule twitch in her cheek ... she knew something. "Carter?"
Sam batted her lashes as she tugged her innocent-looking eyes to his. "Sir?"
"You did something, didn't you?"
Her lips moved to respond, but he stopped it. "Ah-ah ... don't deny it. I've spent many nights filing each one of your looks to memory and I ..." Jack quieted, but didn't look away in spite of his evident embarrassment.
"Food network." Sam offered to the hushed air.
"What?"
"After you gave him his assignment," Sam continued, "he asked for my help. And, I'm sorry, Sir. I knew how much you were looking forward to this. But, you can hardly fault me ... do you have *any* idea how boring the weather channel is?"
He actually laughed at that, his mind conjuring an image of Carter biting back her frustration as Jonas unsuspectingly rambled on while the weather channel burbled in the background. It had taken him years to glimpse beneath her professional shell, and underneath he discovered a sarcasm and impatience that nearly matched his own ... a thought that sent his head spinning, or maybe that was the beer. "Carter?"
"Sir?"
"You have a nasty habit of sucking the fun out of things."
Suddenly, the night air chilled, and goosebumps raged across her skin. Rubbing her arms for warmth, her eyes turned downward for the first time that night, too saddened with the memories the words summoned to view the heavenly splendor above. She muttered an appropriate, "Yes, Sir," before rising from the chair.
Shimmying between the chairs, his hand on her arm blocked her flight. "Major?" Her eyes following the trail from his hand to up his arm, they at last found his; dark and passionate, her heart pleasantly stopped beating, the pulses too much for her sunken stomach as his serious eyes bore into hers. "Don't ever stop."
She smiled dazzlingly, her radiance overpowering that from the stars above.
Their moment continued uninhibited, until finally she snapped her eyes away. Both regretful and relieved for its end, Jack discreetly rose from his chair, his well-built hands clutching the few bottles that rested on the patio table. "Better check on the boys. Wouldn't want Teal'c's yelling at the football game to wake up Jonas ... not after all the trouble of finally getting him to sleep."
Carter giggled unabashedly as she slid open the patio door, closing after he stepped through.
Their moments always ended ...
... but they were enough.
******
The End
Story Notes: Notes: Okay, I realize, first, that this is four days late and, second, that most people reading this don't celebrate Thanksgiving. But I'd quickly written this after the idea entered my head while in the car last Wednesday, and I've been stuck in nowhere land (aka, without a computer) until today. So, sorry for the delay, and sorry if this is so jumbled that it makes no sense. Also, not sure that everyone would know this, so probably should note that yams are sweet potatoes and stuffing is a wonderful culinary concoction of bread and herbs - both are a staple for Thanksgiving dinner. Think that's it.
And, again, thank you to everyone for all the support! That's better than stuffing and yams combined!!!!
And, again, thank you to everyone for all the support! That's better than stuffing and yams combined!!!!
DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc, are the property of their respective owners. Any original characters and plots are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. ... [ read more ]